Option A: Two weddings over a long weekend at one of our large area synagogues. Three hundred of our closest family and friends at each wedding—one Friday afternoon, the other Sunday afternoon.

Then COVID arrived, and Option A disappeared—replaced by two separate Option Bs.

For our daughter, Maya, Option B meant immediate family only, in our backyard.

For our daughter, Jenny, Maya’s Option B couldn’t work. She was marrying a Canadian—someone who couldn’t enter the United States at all, let alone our backyard. Her Option B looked entirely different. Since Jenny and Simcha had both made Aliyah, their wedding took place in Israel, under a government‑mandated limit of thirty guests.

By the time our daughter, Bina, got married, something unexpected happened.

Option A survived.

A large wedding in Monsey exactly as planned.

With all that experience navigating Option Bs as our backdrop, we arrived at Levi’s war‑time wedding in Israel.

Option A was expansive: a large wedding venue outside Jerusalem, friends and family flying in from the U.S. and England, and hundreds of Israeli relatives and friends gathered together.

Then came the war.

The venue closed.

Gatherings were limited.

Travel was restricted.

Once again, Option A vanished.

Option B followed quickly.

Only immediate family could fly to Israel. The wedding moved to the rooftop of a yeshiva in Jerusalem because the yeshiva had ample bomb‑shelter space. The yeshiva cook did the catering. Hundreds of people were uninvited.

Four of our five children are now married.

Three of those weddings required Option B.

What I’ve learned is that Option B isn’t a diluted version of Option A. It isn’t a fallback or a consolation prize; it simply strips things down to what matters most. Option Bs have prioritized marriage over weddings.

We still have one child to go.

I’m hoping our son, Dov, gets married before an apocalypse.

But even if not—we’ve got some experience with Option B.